


Well, So It Goes

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [5]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Casual Sex, French Kissing, Grinding, Gun Violence, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Mpreg, Parenthood, Post Mpreg, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-The Simple Life, Pre-Something Good Can Work, Pregnancy, Rough Kissing, Series, Top Steve Rogers, Undercover Missions, Unplanned Pregnancy, arms dealers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Nearly five years after settling down at the Facility with Steve and earning a place on the team, Bucky gets some unexpected news at the end of a mission.





	Well, So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/gifts).



> I had - in total - 32 requests for a one-shot leading up to [Something Good Can Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630541), in which Bucky and Steve find out they're adding a family member. Because it was such a popular request, I decided to answer it with two one-shots: one for Bucky, and one for Steve.

**JUNE 25, 2022**

 

Bucky “wakes up” in a concrete room, secured to a rickety, creaking wooden chair. There’s duct-tape around his waist, chest, and shoulders, and more duct-tape securing each of his ankles to the chair legs — all of it brittle and water damaged — and handcuffs on his wrists. He can feel spots of rust on them. He has to make a conscious effort not to move or test the restraints, or else the poor old chair will fall apart, and the duct-tape will give up the ghost.

He hadn’t _actually_ been unconscious when he’d let the team of mercenaries drag him in here and tie him to the chair. It was hard to gauge a beating from five non-enhanced men, even if they were all well-trained. They weren’t using lead pipes or anything special, and they might decide to do business with him at some point (hopefully), so no guns either. Usually, he’d take a hard shot to the nose from an elbow or a boot, and that would be enough to show them a little blood and then he’d stumble and faint. These assholes liked to kick ankles and knees. He’d had to let one of them knock him down. Finally, once he was on the ground, someone had thrown a good punch to his temple. If it was enough to make his ears ring for a few seconds, it was probably enough to knock a non-enhanced fighter out.

Everything seemed to be going as well as he could hope, so far: the public hadn’t seen much of him short-haired and (mostly) clean-shaven — not in color, anyway — so no one had clocked him yet; the photostatic veil on his left arm is holding up well; and they’d been interested in the case of repulsor weapons he’d brought them. At least until he’d told them the price. They’d tried to threaten him out of a hefty discount, which had given him a perfect excuse to throw the first punch when one of them got too rough, which had led them, in turn, to kick the shit out of him and go get Batroc to see if he wanted to talk money and buy the whole container or try to torture the location of the weapons cache out of his now “incapacitated” seller.

Batroc’s men had left the room about two minutes ago. God fucking knows how long it’ll take to get Batroc to come talk to him. He could be sitting down here for _hours._ The potential wait is currently foremost on his list of complaints. He’s going to starve to death pretty soon — or at least he feels like he is. Good thing they took the decoy cell Romanov had fixed him up with — another hour of this and he’d be tempted to bust the cuffs and order something to eat. He’s not sure what you can get in terms of take-out in Abidjan at 0400, but he’d eat just about anything, provided they didn’t mind bringing it to the empty utility room at the abandoned freight station and letting their customer pay for his food in trackable, explosive contraband.

His comm unit — too small to be caught by the mercenaries’ sloppy, poorly-lit search of his person, chimes softly in his left ear.

 _“Barnes?”_ Romanov’s voice crackles on the other end of the line, terse and flat with impatience. _“Cough once if your good and twice if you need evac.”_

_“And turn your head and cough if they’re juggling your balls right now.”_

There’s Barton. That fucking idiot just couldn’t keep his hands off a covert mission. Any opportunity to play dress up and invent a backstory, and he conveniently forgot what the word _retired_ meant.

Bucky coughs once.

The comm goes silent again, and he goes back to waiting in the dark. Eventually, his mind wanders away from the mission, and he starts to wonder how the last seven days have gone back at home. He wonders if he’s going to come back to the same bullshit as last time — Lincoln’s sleep schedule two hours behind, a messy apartment, and all the lesson plans he’d left behind for his son half-completed. Apparently, when he was gone for any extended period, Lincoln and Steve weren’t exactly models of discipline. This time, he had asked Sam to keep an eye on them.

It wasn’t that he disagreed with Steve’s method of parenting — they had naturally assumed certain roles which seemed to complement each other. Since public school wasn’t an option, Bucky had taken on the responsibility of teaching his son math, science, and technology. Steve covered reading, art, and social studies. They split history and foreign languages neatly between them. But as far as their responsibilities as _parents_ rather than _educators_ , Steve taught him to make messes and Bucky taught him to clean them up. Steve taught him the importance of arguing and questioning everything, and Bucky taught him that rules are important, too, and that sometimes it’s better to keep your damn mouth shut. Steve taught him how to play baseball, and Bucky taught him not to do it in the Facility’s common room. Steve taught him to be curious and to explore the world, and Bucky taught him that there was no need to be so fucking curious about the stove, the blender, and the power outlets.

Sometimes, he _does_ have to remind himself that a kid Lincoln’s age learns just as much by playing as he does by studying. And sometimes...it’s difficult. The last time he’d returned from an op this long, his carefully curated resources on the multiplication table had been thoroughly abused, and the grids had been colored to look like a Mondrian, with a little less Neoplasticism and a lot more Crayola. The big pad of newsprint Bucky liked to use as a blackboard had become forty stiff, wrinkled finger-paintings. There had still been paint in Lincoln’s hair when Bucky had come home, which he’d found really suspicious, because the paintings had all been drying for two days. Did Steve not _bathe_ their kid, or what? Or had there been _so much_ paint in his hair at some point that Bucky was only seeing the last remnants of the evidence?

The only major drawback of their system is that now, he and Steve argue. More often and more heatedly than they’ve ever argued in their lives. Raising a child is more frustrating than either of them had previously imagined it would be, and there’s nowhere to discharge that frustration except in a fight. If there’s not currently a mission that calls for hand-to-hand combat, then all that aggression winds up coming out the minute they start a conversation.

Before, they had argued over insurmountable, unsolvable problems. They had debated the best course of action for situations with no right answers in the clear, eloquent, but vehement manner in which rational adults often must. Now, that bullshit required more time and effort than they have to spare.

When they have any small stretch of time alone together without their son, they dedicate a large portion of it to running the gauntlet from teasing and bickering to outright shouting matches. They fight about _everything,_ from how and when to talk to their five year old about death, right down to the “correct” method of writing a goddamn subtraction problem.

Honestly — subtraction had been their most vicious dispute. Bucky had gone to sleep on the sofa, after that one.

Fortunately, he had also realized about an hour afterward that they were both fucking idiots. Going to bed angry over _arithmetic,_ Jesus Christ. He had returned to the bedroom and informed Steve of his revelation, and they had instantly, effortlessly agreed to show Lincoln both methods and let him choose which was easiest for him. And then they’d headed out onto the balcony, split a cigarette, and fucked out there, too, for good measure. It was a nice way of rewarding themselves for finding an amicable solution.

Actually, now that he thinks back — sex seems to be an increasingly standard conclusion to their increasingly frequent fights. On one or two occasions, Bucky _might_ have even been a prick to Steve purposefully, for this very reason. Not intentionally, of course. All completely subconscious.

He’s gotta think of something to be mad about before he gets home.

 _Before_ that, though, he’s going to eat absolutely everything in their refrigerator. _Fuck,_ he’d give up his other arm for Chinese food right now.

Thankfully, there’s no more time to keep fantasizing about food. Bucky can hear unhurried footsteps coming down the hallway, beating steadily against the concrete floor. It’s gotta be Batroc — only the man in charge would walk that slowly.

Bucky makes an effort to look a little worse, like the beating had taken something out of him. Batroc nudges the door open with his foot, hands busied with a lighter and two cigarettes. He holds both in his mouth for a moment as he flips the lightswitch. He doesn’t look much different than the photo in his file — one or two years older, maybe, skin tanned a shade deeper, and a little less lean and more muscular than he had been. The freight station is uncomfortably warm, and Abidjan’s rainy season is peaking, leaving pools of tepid water in the corners of every room. The humidity has Batroc stripped down to his off-white A-shirt and holsters, and his pant-legs are tucked smartly into his boots, exposing a little gleam of silver on the tips of the soles. Suddenly, Bucky’s a little upset that he’s never thought to ask Tony for some boots with knives in them. A few more steps into the light and Bucky gets a better look at him.

Romanov wasn’t exaggerating. This guy _is_ a looker. And French. However stereotypical it may be, Bucky gets a little weak-kneed over that particular accent — even during an interrogation. Or, _especially_ during an interrogation. He hasn’t decided yet.

Batroc approaches the chair with a casual kind of _purpose_ , strolling forward with an easy sigh. He grasps one of the cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger and rotates it slowly in his hand, turning the filter toward Bucky. He leaves it a few inches from his face, clearly indicating that he expects Bucky to lean forward and take it from him.

Oh. Oh, _shit._

Given that Bucky’s wrists are still cuffed behind his back, and considering the steadiness of Batroc’s hooded gaze, staring patiently down at him through his dark lashes — it’s a pretty fucking sensual move. Bucky finds himself  a little taken in by it, even though he’s fairly sure that the cherry of that cigarette will be hissing against his skin in a few minutes. Honestly, as long as Batroc doesn’t put it out by sticking it in his eye, it probably won’t do much to detract from the mood. Might even improve it.

Bucky _should_ try to hide the intense intrigue he feels — maybe aim for an expression that’s a little more hesitant and nervous — but hey, what the hell. Winning Batroc’s respect could only increase his chances of success. Luckily, he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what a man like Batroc respects — and it’s not shyness. He glances up at him with just a touch of defiance as he takes a drag off the cigarette, careful not to pull it out of the man’s loose grip, making sure his mouth touches Batroc’s thumb _just a little._

Batroc’s brow lifts fractionally. He’s interested. He takes a step back, reaches into the deep pocket of his pants, and pulls out the wallet Bucky had brought with him. There’s cash in a few currencies that will support his other invented sales, and an identification card. Batroc also pulls out the brass knuckles they’d found in his back pocket, his cell phone, and the handgun that had been nestled in his side holster.

“SVI...Tiki-T,” Batroc smiles, turning the gun over in his hands, repeating the name of the model almost playfully. “You must be having good luck finding buyers. This is a nice gun. Expensive.”

“Nothing’s expensive if you steal it,” Bucky replies around the cigarette.

Batroc takes it back and flicks the ash onto the floor, then takes a drag from it himself, despite the fact that the other one he’s lit is still in his hand. “My friends told me about the weapons you want me to distribute for you,” he says, flipping through the photos of the stockpile stored on the cellphone Bucky had brought. “The samples you brought me, they’re in good condition. What about all of this?” he asks, suddenly turning the cellphone’s bright screen toward Bucky’s eyes. Bucky reminds himself to flinch.

“Checked everything myself.”

“One-point-two million, you told them. Is that correct?”

Bucky decides this is going alright — might as well double down on the brash bullshit. Batroc seemed to like it. “If _you_ transport it. If you expect me to haul it, there’s fees. Price goes up for every border I gotta cross with it.”

Batroc shrugs. “Understandable.”

“Well, tell your motherfuckin’ people that. They don’t know what this stuff’s worth.”

Batroc paces like he's got music in his head — lazy, graceful, almost distracted. Like a man who’s composing a symphony. “What I _do not understand,”_ he begins, and with each emphasized syllable, he tosses one of the confiscated items at Bucky’s feet. Phone. Wallet. Keys. He keeps the gun, of course. What worries Bucky more are the brass knuckles Batroc’s weighing thoughtfully in his hand. “Is what use...the Winter Soldier has...for a toy like this.”

Bucky can hear Barton laughing on the other end of the comm. “Told you. Too famous to be a spy.”

This is fine. This can still work. He’ll have to _make_ it work, one way or another, or he’s going to end up with a bullet in his head. He’ll just have to very carefully lie his ass off and hope Batroc buys it.

“Unless I’m mistaken, of course,” Batroc shrugs, slipping the brass knuckles onto his right hand and testing the fit and grip. He seems to like it. He glances up, considering Bucky’s face with a familiar look in his eye.

Bucky heaves a tired sigh of resignation. What’s the point of going on an op if you don’t get punched once or twice?

But _goddamn_ Batroc can throw a fucking punch. Granted, the brass knuckles help.

Batroc nails him on the left side of his jaw, and before Bucky can straighten his neck out, he comes back in with a backhand that _might_ have just fractured his cheekbone. That was actually a pretty fucking impressive right hook, for someone who’s not enhanced. And Batroc’s ready to throw a third and he’s aiming for the bridge of his nose and that’s _definitely going to break if_ —

Bucky tips the chair back and kicks out hard, snapping the duct tape and the chair legs at the same time. Batroc’s already thrown his weight into the strike, so when Bucky’s boot lands between his ribs, they both go over backwards. The chair is effectively destroyed underneath him and the handcuff chain pops like a cheap jewelry clasp, leaving his limbs free.

Batroc hits the concrete wall hard, but still manages to recover in the brief time it takes Bucky to get his footing. He looks like he’s ready to go back on the attack, so Bucky puts his hands up.

 _“Stop,_ Batroc,” he demands, no longer bothering to affect his voice or dialect. He makes no effort to convince Batroc that he’s _threatened,_ either, which is all the confirmation the man needs to decide his guess was right.

 _“We can have you out in twenty seconds if it gets out of hand, Barnes,”_ Romanov reminds him.

Batroc points the gun at him anyway. Probably just a precaution — he doesn’t look like he’s done playing quite yet. “I had not heard much about you since your trial,” Batroc says, tone conversational, finger steady on the trigger. “I was wondering how long it would take. Hydra would not let a weapon like you go — not forever.”

The moment Batroc says those words, he seems to make a decision. There’s no warning other than the minute change in his eyes — the way an animal’s pupils dilate just before it makes a kill. The range is point-blank. Never more than a fifty-percent chance that he’ll faint the right way. Batroc’s right handed, it’ll be a few degrees off-center — Bucky twists his torso and leans right.

It’s close. He can feel the concussive blast of super-heated air from the bullet’s flight streaking just past his forehead.

He grabs Batroc’s right arm in his left and twists hard. Batroc’s face is against the wall before he’s done feeling the recoil.

 _“Barnes.”_ Romanov finally sounds a little worried.

 _“J'ai de la chance,”_ Batroc laughs, voice breathless and rough now that Bucky’s knocked the wind out of his chest. “Hydra’s enforcer. I’ve always wanted to fight you.”

Romanov has given up on worrying. Now, she’s getting pissed. _“Great_ — _I think we just blew past Plan B right down to Plan H.”_

Bucky leans in, putting another dozen pounds of pressure on Batroc’s twisted arm. A muscle in Batroc’s jaw flares, but otherwise — no reaction. “I’m not Hydra’s.”

Clint’s voice filters in from a few feet away. _“He’s fine, let him go.”_

Batroc’s voice takes on a patronizing edge. “Then you’re an Avenger now.”

Bucky hears boots outside the door just before it opens. He jerks Batroc away from the wall by the hair and turns him toward the room’s entrance, pinning Batroc’s index finger against the gun’s trigger with his own and pressing the still-hot muzzle into the man’s sweating temple. “Not exactly.”

Four men and two women enter with guns aimed.

At least Batroc’s equal opportunity.

He’s also _frighteningly_ calm for someone with a loaded gun against his head. _“Combien de fois dois-je te le dire? Hm?”_ he asks, quick and clipped, like he’s telling a group of kids not to play ball inside the house. _“Nous négocions. Ne pas interrompre.”_

For a moment, they hesitate. Then, one of the women lowers her gun. She fixes Batroc with a narrow-eyed stare, just to let him know that, even though he’s in charge, she thinks he’s an idiot. She gives the man to her right a nod and exits, muttering something heated to the group at large, and they follow her back out.

“So, the Winter Soldier has become a vigilante, then?” Batroc asks, casually picking up the thread of their interrupted conversation as soon as the door shuts behind his team.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You can let me go, Mr. Barnes,” he advises politely. “If you are not Hydra, I won’t kill you. Let’s discuss your merchandise upstairs — a little cooler up there, I think.”

Bucky accepts the risk on a gut feeling and releases him, and Batroc is as good as his word. Neither his stance nor his motions show any sign of aggression, and he keeps his back turned toward Bucky as he steps away. This guy’s either far too trusting or _stupidly_ fearless. He bends low and scoops up the still-burning cigarettes he had dropped, passing one over his shoulder for Bucky.

They don’t speak for a few minutes as they climb the rusty stairs in the main warehouse up to a catwalk that takes them to a high concrete platform. He follows Batroc to a second flight of steps that leads them up through a sodium vapor-lit stairwell to the top northwest corner of the freight station’s long-empty administrative wing.

 _“Barnes, you’re getting pretty far away from your backup,”_ Romanov informs him shortly.

 _“Damn,_ Steve, _get off his ass.”_

 _“I’m not on his_ — _”_

_“Let him do his thing.”_

Batroc’s “office” is surprisingly neat, especially considering that it’s also functioning as a complete living space. He has a cot set up against the interior wall, and a large folding-table that he’s using as a desk, which is stacked with neatly organized bundles of cash atop pages from legal pads, each filled with meticulously handwritten inventories, notes, and profits and expenditures. The only hint of untidiness is a styrofoam takeout container on the otherwise empty side of the table. Judging by the faint smell, there’s still food in it.

“So,” Batroc smiles, bolting the door behind him and throwing himself down into a worn-out office chair, “You are not the Winter Soldier. How should I call you instead?”

“Barnes is fine. Or Bucky, if you want.”

“We will see,” he grins. “Tell me, why are you trafficking weapons? You were acquitted of...everything? Why waste such a gift?”

“Getting acquitted — that’s one thing,” Bucky laughs, finishing off his cigarette. “Finding a steady nine-to-five, after all that...little more complicated.”

“I see. And the Avengers were...not helpful? Your friend, Captain America, he would not help you?”

“He has,” Bucky answers honestly. “But I don’t wanna be his charity case. I don’t want to owe him anything.”

“So you steal weapons from his friend, Tony Stark.”

“No. I’m not that stupid. Been hitting all the old Hydra warehouses. If there’s information there, I dump it online. If there’s stuff there, I take it. If there are people there, I kill them.”

Batroc nods slowly, expressing his firm support. “I like your system.”

“The crate I’m trying to sell — tech’s about two years old. Bunker was in Israel. Deserted. I can’t keep it, but it could be bad if someone else got a hold of it.”

“And I suppose you heard I sell to Pakistan.”

“I don’t take sides. I just need it off my hands.”

“Well, I think I can take it off your hands,” Batroc says sincerely, leaning back in his chair and letting it swivel from side to side. “Goods stolen from Hydra are just as beneficial as goods stolen from Stark. I hope you do not hold it against me, since he is a friend of your friend. I steal from Stark whenever I can.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I like his weapons and I hate him.”

“Not quite as bad as Hydra, though.”

“Either way, evil men are left without their instruments of war.” The justification is simple, and his voice is calm and even. Bucky understands. Stark’s his friend, and he’s a good guy, but he had a few major fuck-ups on his record. Not that Bucky could hold any of it against him. Not in good conscience, anyway. “Are you...hungry? Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky looks up suddenly, genuinely caught off-guard by Batroc’s bemused question. He certainly hadn’t _meant_ to do it, but he’d been staring at the takeout container for a while. Batroc pushes it toward him, eyebrows raised almost sympathetically, and pops the lid open.

Fried plantains, seared tuna, and attiéké — probably from a street vendor, probably purchased well over four hours ago. He’s eaten worse and not died.

“Thanks,” he nods, trying to take the container slowly. _Slow_ doesn’t last. Either the food is pretty good, or he was just hungry enough to eat something bad.

“Working for yourself can be difficult,” Batroc laughs. “Unless you are well-established, regular meals are rare.”

“Got that right,” Bucky agrees, even though he ate earlier that day.

“I will pay you what you are asking for the full container. Of course, I will inspect it first.”

“No problem.”

“I will take care of moving it, as well.”

“It’s up the coast in Edina.”

Batroc’s eyes widen. “You must be very new to selling. There’s no need to tell me this until I pay you.”

“You’ve got a reputation for honesty.”

“Thank you.”

“And you know better than to fuck me over,” Bucky reminds him.

Batroc laughs instantly, genuinely, and claps his calloused hands together softly with amusement. “I suppose you are right. I will give you cash for the container when you bring me to it.”

“Gonna need a down payment before I do that.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Of course.” Batroc replies easily. Seems like the amount won’t be any problem for him. “I have another offer which I would like you to consider. An alternative.”

The way Batroc says that is enough to persuade Bucky to leave the cold fried plantains unfinished. “Alright.”

“You have an incredible skill-set, Mr. Barnes. Your enhancements, your training, your knowledge of Hydra’s facilities. And yet you have few connections to other dealers. Probably,” he chuckles, “they have heard of you, though. How many languages?”

“Thirty-five.” Bucky likes where this is going. If he can get in with Batroc on a more permanent arrangement, there won’t be any need to rely on tracking the contraband he sells, which means there won’t necessarily be a need for high-tech weapons to find their way into the wrong hands. They could cut his operation off right at the source. Clean house.

“And you are not only a fighter, I think,” Batroc muses. “You can...create conflict, confusion. Mistrust. Quietly?”

Bucky nods. “I’ve toppled a few regimes, if that’s what you mean.”

“That is perfect,” he laughs, shaking his head. “And you seem to be... _honorable._ I have some respect for you. We would make good partners.”

Bucky doesn’t show his hand just yet. He stares back at Batroc as if he’s waiting for the rest of the offer. Wouldn’t look good to come off too eager.

“But of course, you do not trust me completely. Not yet.” Batroc rises — makes his way around the table, slowly, like he’s approaching some kind of abused animal, hoping to offer it kindness. “And there would be no charity from me — not like Captain Rogers,” he warns, and now there’s something dark in his eyes — something covetous. Possessive. “Our talents — we would complement one another, don’t you think?”

Bucky gazes up at him from the chair, letting the corners of his lips curl suggestively upward as Batroc closes every last inch of distance between them, standing so close that he’s practically straddling Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s not sure whether it’s a show of submission or _aggressive_ dominance. Either one’s fine with him. “Haven’t decided.”

Suddenly, Batroc’s smile turns pleasantly cordial. “Hm.” One little amused burst of laughter, and he makes his move. Bucky barely has time to shift his weight forward in the next half-second as Batroc hooks the leg of the folding chair with his ankle and sweeps it out from under him. He wraps his left arm around one of Batroc’s thighs, surges upward, and tosses him right into the concrete wall. He’s almost sure they’re _playing_ right now — just testing each other — and he’s also certain that Batroc would be incredibly disappointed if Bucky held back, short of killing him.

 _“Are they fucking or fighting? Jesus Christ_ — _”_

_“I mean, Barnes wins either way.”_

Bucky aims a strike for Batroc’s face, but he ducks fast, back sliding down the wall as Bucky’s prosthetic lodges in the concrete just above his head. He locks both arms around it and sweeps his right leg in and up, high enough that he can trap Bucky in a vice-like headlock in the crook of his knee. Bucky pulls free of it, but loses both his jacket and the photostatic veil on his arm to Batroc’s grip in the process.

The next few seconds are relentless, unbelievably quick strikes from Batroc — not just fists and the occasional kick, like Steve tends to fight, but every limb — hands, feet, elbows, knees, advancing from every angle in unpredictable sequences.

His impressive display of speed and precision is enough to put Bucky on the defensive. All he can do is block each attack without much time to spare, and Bucky is forced to concede ground to him inch by inch until a heavy strike from Batroc’s knee has his back pressed against the opposite wall.

Batroc scuffs his boot against the ground and snaps his leg high, and by the time Bucky hears the blade on his shoe cutting through the air, it’s milliseconds from burying itself right under his jaw.

If he wasn’t treating this fight as life or death, he wouldn’t have been able to block it. Batroc is _serious._

Bucky catches Batroc’s ankle in his right hand and the blade in his left. Snaps the blade off. Swings.

Batroc _almost_ doesn’t lean back in time.

Bucky releases his foot — he can tell by Batroc’s grin that he’s handing him the victory. There’s sweat streaking down from his hair and over his broad shoulders, and Bucky can see the sharp lines of his abdomen, heaving with exertion beneath his clinging shirt. The material stretched over his pecs is cut cleanly open.

Batroc takes a step back, still smiling, and presses his fingers curiously to the torn edges of the fabric. Blood beads up along the long, shallow scratch spanning his chest.

When he lunges forward this time, Bucky knows it won’t be to kill him.

Batroc’s mouth is _violent_ — the skin of Bucky’s lip gives under the sharp impact of Batroc’s teeth, but it doesn’t stop him from returning the full force of the kiss with equal enthusiasm. One of Batroc’s hands darts under the hem of his shirt and the other squeezes ruthlessly at his jaw, demanding and ungentle. He cants his hips forward, grinding his cock into the juncture of Bucky’s hip and thigh and — _God,_ he must’ve been thinking about this from the moment Bucky had taken the cigarette out of his hand. Hard as _granite._

Bucky grabs the holsters on his shoulders and pulls him in closer, just so Batroc can be _certain_ he’s reciprocating, then moves his own hands down Batroc’s body almost frantically, gripping every muscle he can reach, fingertips inevitably leaving bruises along the way. Batroc breaks the kiss, drags his teeth along Bucky’s chin and down to his neck, tongue sliding over tendons and sinew and sucking bright red bruises into his shoulder.

_“Barnes, check in. We can’t tell if you’re injured or just making friends.”_

Batroc doesn’t take his teeth off Bucky’s neck or relinquish the hold he has on his jaw, but his hips still against him. The coiled tension seems to seep out of his back and sides.

“Don’t fucking stop,” Bucky says, hoping the words show all the _right_ kind of desperation, but it’s a little too late, now. With his own ear pressed against Bucky’s as he’d sunk his teeth into his shoulder, there’s no way Batroc hadn’t heard the comm.

He doesn’t look particularly surprised, but he _does_ seem a little disappointed. He takes the gun he’d confiscated from Bucky out of his back pocket, but doesn’t raise it. Instead, he backs away and rights the folding chair he’d knocked out from under Bucky.

“You won our match,” he sighs, then takes out his cellphone, slides his thumb across the screen and taps it once. “My people will shoot you on sight. I will give you thirty seconds before I do the same.”

Bucky nods, and picks his jacket up off the floor.

“Leave the jacket,” Batroc demands teasingly. Bucky hands it to him. The gesture is almost apologetic. “And if you ever get tired of working for capitalist animals like Stark...my offer stands.”

“Thanks.”

“I will keep the gun, as well,” he smiles. “Ten seconds, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky turns toward the exterior wall behind Batroc’s desk, jumps for the high window and catches it with his fingertips, breaks the glass, tears away the steel grate, and slips out onto the drain pipes. He’s only about thirty feet above a wider section of the building that will give him room to move and — hopefully — a way down to the ground. The shooting starts right on time.

“Barton — drive. Head northwest. I’ll meet you,” he pants, sprinting along the roof of the warehouse section, ducking under his prosthetic to escape a rain of bullets from the windows above him, weaving to avoid the aim of the two gunmen stationed on the ground below. He makes it to the fire escape, but the bullets rattling the metal ladder get a little too close too quickly, and fifty feet from the ground suddenly feels close enough. He jumps.

A clean tuck and roll doesn’t save him two skinned knees when he lands, but he can still run fast enough to catch up with the van as it peels away. The gunfire kicking up dust at his heels doesn’t hurt his speed, either.

Romanov slides the back door open for him, and with a final burst of adrenaline, he pushes himself into a dead sprint, catches the side of the van, and pulls himself inside.

“Goddamnit, Romanov,” he curses breathlessly, collapsing to sit on the mildewed carpet on the van’s floor. “Do you not know what _fucking_ sounds like? Ruined my night.”

“Sorry,” she groans. “To be fair, Clint wasn’t sure either.”

“Yeah, Barnes, you getting off sounds a lot like anybody else bleeding out.”

“It’s fine — we won’t be able to track his merchandise directly,” Bucky grunts, placing the cold-pack Romanov tosses him on his possibly-fractured cheek, “but he kept the gun, so we can still track _him._ You can get audio from that, right? _”_

“Sure, if he doesn’t fire it too many times and blow out the receiver. Told you he’d like that one,” she says, catching Barton’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, he woulda _loved_ a Jericho. Everybody loves those.”

“They’re _old.”_

“They’re _classic._ Nice job, by the way, Barnes. He warmed up to you real fast.”

“Wasn’t really expecting it to go down like that,” Bucky huffs.

“How about baby-daddy?” Barton deadpans. “He gonna be pissed when he sees the report?”

Bucky laughs. “Oh, yeah.”

“Better call and confess before he sees it, then.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they’re sure they’re clear of any pursuit, Bucky makes Clint pull the van to the side of the road. He spends about fifteen minutes vomiting onto the muddied gravel.

Maybe eating Batroc’s leftover tuna and cassava from an African food truck before a high speed chase at four-thirty in the morning was a _bad_ idea.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, they’ve conferred with Vision — their current contact in Ops — back at the Facility, and unanimously agreed that their mission in Abidjan can be wrapped with a verdict of _partially successful._ There’s no point in staying in the country. They’ll return to New York with their intel and the promise of more information from the bugged gun, and go after Batroc again later, with a new strategy.

They board the Quinjet at exactly 0600. The flight back to New York will take four hours, unless they run into bad weather, which means it’ll be 0600 all over again when he gets home. Hopefully, Steve won’t have anything to do and will be able to watch Lincoln for one more afternoon, and he’ll be able to sleep in. _If_ Lincoln will let him. Until then, Bucky should have time to clean up his cuts and bruises, write his report, and sleep off whatever food poisoning he’d contracted. He hadn’t thought old food would touch him in a million years, but boy, had it _ever._ He feels like he’s got a hangover.

But calling Steve is his first priority. He’ll want to know he’s alright. Clint seems to know it’s at the top of his list well before he takes out his phone. “Calling him on your cell, or you want him on the big screen?” he smiles.

Bucky throws himself down into one of the bucket seats toward the jet’s center, where he’ll feel the acceleration a little less, and straps in. “Better not put him on the screen, might not be dressed. Did you call Laura?” he replies distractedly, already dialing Steve’s number for a video call. He and Clint have made a habit of reminding one another to make their check-ins.

“Pff. This wasn’t a breaking news story kind of mission. I just texted her. She said...” and Clint looks at his phone, as if to refresh his memory. _“K.”_

Bucky sends the call and Steve answers promptly, mussed hair and nightclothes indicating that he’d been to bed at some point and had gotten back up. He’s seated at the kitchen table. A few lights are on behind him. There’s ketchup on the shoulder of his shirt.

“Hi, sweetheart!” he grins, just before the shouting starts.

“Papa! Hi, Papa, um, are you coming home?”

“Steve, is it two in the morning in New York?”

“Uh...well, yeah, I guess it’s about ten ‘til. Or — well, it’s ten after,” Steve fumbles, as if the goddamn time isn’t on his watch, on the wall, and on the phone screen right in front of his face.

“Why is my son awake?”

Bucky can hear Lincoln’s feet skittering around to the other side of the table. His face hovers over Steve’s phone, too close to the camera, as usual.

“Papa! I needed to tell you some—um, hi. I love you, Papa. And we — Daddy misses you really bad, because you’ve been gone for one year and we—”

“I’ve been gone for one _week,_ Lincoln.”

“And we got hungry so Daddy and me made hambur—cheeseburgers. His has mustard and mine has no mustard.”

“Yeah, you don’t like mustard,” Bucky smiles.

“Well, I do like it but only on bologna,” Lincoln corrects him.

“And hot dogs,” Bucky adds.

“Papa, your face and your lip got blood on them.”

“Just a little bit. Lincoln, move your big head so I can talk to your daddy.”

“Okay, I love you, but don’t come home until me and Daddy clean my room.”

“I love you, too.”

Steve’s voice filters in from the background. “...better go eat your burger, snitch. Sit on your butt, please.” He takes his phone over to the couch and settles down. “His room’s not all that messy.”

“Steve, he can have a _snack_ in the middle of the night. He can’t be up for forty-five minutes cooking cheeseburgers with you.”

“Well, I put him to bed a little early, so he’ll still get enough—”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did.”

“We—he was _in_ bed at—”

“Sure he was—Wait! Steve! Wait, forget about that. Take me off speaker.”

“What happened?” Steve asks immediately, pressing the phone to his ear. “Did you find out who was selling Tony’s tech?”

“What do you — have you not checked in at Ops?”

“No, I’m _off work,_ why would I—?”

“Batroc.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Steve,” he practically gushes. “You’re gonna _kill_ me.”

“Why?”

“Well, I went undercover.”

Steve pauses and thinks, and then utters a stunned, “No.”

“You’re gonna be so fuckin’ mad at me.”

“Bucky, you _fu_ — _”_ Steve’s voice drops instantly to a whisper as he catches himself, then continues with an affectedly calm tone. “You got to meet Batroc?”

“Not a home run, but it was _very close._ Romanov cock-blocked me.”

“I was being over-protective,” she calls out from the back of the cabin. “Steve told me I could be your substitute husband.”

“I did tell her that.”

“Steve, Batroc’s a goddamn _dream.”_

“I told you!”

“You didn’t tell me he was hung like a fuckin’ racehorse!”

“Bucky, you jerk! You know I saw him first, right?”

And Bucky hears a faint retort in the background of the call: “Daddy, you don’t say ‘jerk’ and you can’t say you saw something first. You have to share and be nice.”

Bucky and Steve both briefly lose their composure over that. Meanwhile, Romanov is prepping a few supplies over in the med-bay, which means Bucky should probably wrap up his call and let her x-ray his swollen face. Still laughing at Lincoln’s unwittingly funny rebuke, he says, “Put him to bed or I’ll kill you, Steve.”

“Okay, love you,” Steve replies, unbothered, and hangs up.

By the time Friday finishes processing the x-rays of his face and finds the small zygomatic fracture, the swelling is down and the pain is manageable. It’ll be healed in a few days, and in the meantime, he can sleep on his other side. Romanov isn’t much of a medic, but she can sterilize the cuts on his back while he cleans the ones on his face. And then Barton takes them out over the open ocean and brings the altitude up a little too sharply for Bucky’s taste. He doesn’t risk opening his mouth to tell Romanov he’s going to vomit — just snaps his fingers sharply and points toward the trash receptacle at her feet, where she’s been throwing the bloodied gauze.

“Don’t snap your fucking fingers at me,” she laughs incredulously. Thankfully, she passes it over anyway, just in time for Bucky to bend double and get his face over it. “Oh,” Romanov sighs. “Yeah. Snapping forgiven.”

“Uh-oh,” Barton smiles teasingly, without looking away from the controls.

“Old street food,” Bucky gasps wetly. “And your driving. Bad combination.”

“Never made the other super soldier blow chunks,” Barton shrugs. “But sure, blame me. You definitely couldn’t be pregnant, because Steve definitely uses a condom every single time.”

And suddenly, Bucky is more intensely terrified than he’s ever been in his life. The fear passes quickly, though, and denial sets in.

“Which I know he _doesn’t,_ by the way, because Wanda has the rooms next to yours, and she texts me for support when you guys fuck too loud, and she _specifically_ mentioned overhearing the words _‘Fuck yes, Steve, come in my_ — _’”_

“I can’t be pregnant.”

Romanov has the presence of mind to be concerned — she flips on the med-bay’s bioscanner, casting a white grid of light over the exam table where Bucky’s sitting. “Why not?”

“Because I—we haven’t talked about…” _Fuck._ “I—I don’t have _time.”_ His justification is admittedly a little weak.

That gets a facetiously loud laugh out of Clint.

Romanov pushes him onto his back without any further discussion. “Alright, Friday, do your thing. How’s it look in there?”

“Excellent!” the AI answers instantly. “Barnes didn’t sustain any internal injuries during the mission.” Bucky’s not sure Friday knows how to pause for dramatic effect, but her momentary caesura could hardly be anything else. Then again, she is _Tony’s_ AI. _Of course_ dramatic pauses are included in her functionality. “And the fetus is healthy, too. Cheers, everyone!”

What might be several minutes later, Friday takes the initiative to interrupt the stunned silence. “I _am_ all done with the scan, Bucky. You can sit up, if you like.”

“Scan again,” he requests unsteadily.

“O-kay,” Friday replies. She almost sounds a little hurt by his disbelief. “You know, my scanners are _really_ good now. The bioscanners I just used on you have gone through over four-hundred iterations and been tested on multiple individuals and a wide array of hardware to detect internal bleeding, broken bones, foreign objects, tissue damage and degeneration, and — thanks to an upgrade I received from the boss and Dr. Banner about six years ago, which I believe you might remember — I’m also familiar with your reproductive anatomy—”

“Okay, fuck, I got it,” Bucky snaps.

“Sorry, I was stalling,” Friday quips back, triumphant in an uncannily Stark-like manner, for an Irish robot voice. “I hope you don’t mind, Agent Romanov — I assumed you were done with the images of the zygomatic fracture.”

Romanov drags her fingers through the air to enlarge the picture on the screen hovering beside the bed. “Oh, shit,” she chuckles.

Bucky is no longer sure that the Quinjet is underneath him. He just might be flying all on his own.

While Bucky tries to find the correct mechanisms for speech, Friday provides a more thorough explanation, her tone suddenly softer than before. “I’m not capable of Dr. Banner’s level of accuracy in this area, but it appears to be between seven or eight weeks along. No fingers or toes yet, but arms and legs are developing nicely. About the same size as a blueberry. A big blueberry, anyway.”

Bucky sits up, staring at the three-dimensional scans until his face feels hot with excitement and horror and joy. Romanov’s attention has shifted from the images to Bucky’s slack face and unblinking, glassy-eyed gaze. “Barnes, say something. You look like you need an intervention.”

Bucky overhears a quiet scoff from the cockpit. “He needs a full-time nanny and a bigger apartment, is what he needs. Congrats, man,” Barton calls out. “I knew you had it in you. ‘It’ being Rogers’ dick. Which is how you got into this mess. Okay, no one’s laughing. I’ll shut up and fly.” And then, under his breath, he adds, “I’m here all night.”

Finally, Bucky is too full of nervous energy to sit on the edge of the exam table any longer. He stands up, walks to the back of the cabin, then up to the seats in the cockpit, and then back to the med-bay, chanting the words _oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,_ over and over, enduing each repetition of the phrase with a different emotion as he processes the news. The Quinjet isn’t all that spacious. Not for the amount of anxiety he needs to walk off, anyway.

“Are you calling Steve _now?”_ Romanov smiles. She looks like she’s getting a lot of entertainment out of this. “Or when we land?”

“Fuck. I have to tell Steve.” Bucky hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “Fuck. I’m gonna throw up again,” he announces, but doesn’t move back toward the trash can he’d been using.

Romanov nudges it toward him with the toe of her boot. “How about you pace and vomit for the rest of the flight, Barnes?” she suggests blithely. “You can give Steve the news when you’re functional again.”

“That’s smart,” he agrees. “That’s good.”

“Barnes, sit down and put the trash can between your knees. You’re about to hurl again, buddy,” she warns. Luckily, Bucky follows the order before it’s too late. The timing of her prediction was impeccable.

He _does_ want to call Steve. And Sam. And Bruce and Helen. Tony. _Ruth._ He wants to call _everyone._ Now. Immediately. He’d call a goddamn _news station_ if it wouldn’t unquestionably ruin his life. Unfortunately, he can’t do any of that. He is _down._

He crawls back onto the exam table and lies face-down on the cool metal, one arm wrapped around the edge for purchase and one leg dangling off the side so that his foot can touch the floor for stability. It’s only been an hour or two since they’d pulled the plug on their mission in Abidjan, and he’s already beginning to miss the simplicity of tracking arms dealers and dodging bullets.

He’s never felt this sick in his life. He’s never felt this lucky, either.

 _Another kid._ Two kids. _His_ kids.

Another _baby._ God, _another_ baby.

 _Two_ kids.

And, if this kid is anything like the last one was, about seven more weeks of morning sickness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for waiting so patiently for an update to [Something Good Can Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630541) while I typed this up.


End file.
